


London Loves

by Engines_of_ressistance



Category: Blur (Band), British Singers RPF, Britpop - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Bromance, Gen, London, and more cameos probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2020-11-24 01:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20899034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engines_of_ressistance/pseuds/Engines_of_ressistance
Summary: The mystery of a speeding car...Graham Coxon is an art student at Goldsmiths living a mundane, average and completely unexceptional existence. One night, fate decides to throw a detective working a challenging case at him and change his life. For better or for worse? Only time will tell.





	1. Bad Day

The room pulsated purple light as Morrissey sang about punctured bicycles on hillsides. The Smiths weren’t actually there, but playing over the speakers while people cheered and sang and danced and spilled their drink all over a man in the corner. He looked at them as if they were a mosquito that had landed on his leg and started drinking his blood without even asking for consent. Mosquitos are quite rude really. 

“Sorry!” The culprit giggled. The people next to her laughed too, and they ponced off to go dance some more. He wanted to carry on as he was; bopping his head and stepping from side to side, but seeing as alcohol was dripping from his hair and his clothes were reasonably soaked it seemed like the right time to go home. The sopping man from the corner made his way through the crowd and stepped outside, disposing of his empty plastic cup on the way. A motorbike, his motorbike, was parked just across the pavement and he fished for his keys. Happy thoughts about the fact that it was Friday night and not so happy thoughts about an essay on surrealism which he’d finished but didn’t like crossed his mind. In an act of speed a car zoomed past and knocked his glasses askew, so he pushed them back up his nose. _Stupid boy racers, _he thought, _when will they learn the world_ _doesn’t revolve around them. _This was not a very fair thought, as he often wove in and out of traffic jams while angry business people yelled at him out their windows to stop being such a show off. He put his helmet on and planned to have a shower when he got home. While he yawned a man with dirty blond hair and a black leather jacket snatched his keys and jumped onto the seat of his motorcycle. 

Dirty Blonde looked at him, “you’re not Alex.”

“No I’m not.”

“You’re not Alex.”

“No, im Graham and that's my motorcycle.”

“Can I borrow it then?”

Graham gaped.

Dirty Blonde looked impatiently at the street, and said through gritted teeth: “look, a car is going to come speeding past here in a few seconds, and when it does I need to follow it.”

“I think I saw it,” said Graham.

Dirty Blonde perked up, “what? Saw what?”

Graham frowned, “the car, just before.”

“Shit.” Dirty Blond huffed, and proceeded to start the engine.

“What are you doing?” Graham yelled.

“I need you to tell me which direction the car was headed.” Asked Dirty Blonde, dead serious.

A short but fierce battle raged inside Grahams head in which madness won over reason, resulting in him jumping on the bike behind the stranger.

“What are you doing then?” Dirty Blonde exclaimed.

Graham was incensed, “its my bike, innit?” He said, and then pointed, “the car went that way.”

Dirty Blonde grinned, “alright, I suggest you hold on.”

Graham hugged the strangers stomach for dear life as they zipped along the street in pursuit. Aside from the cocktail of fear and adrenaline Graham felt he probably looked stupid clinging to this stranger who, upon closer inspection, wore pink socks. Chances of catching up with the car were slim, but Dirty Blonde was determined. Only when they started meeting traffic did he veer off down a side street, park and swear. 

Graham started, “who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I’m a detective, Graham.”

“Yeah sure but you can't just steal my motorbike!” Graham fumed. He was angry now, because the alcohol was beginning to leave his system, because this whole situation was just… “bonkers. You’re bonkers!”

“I’m mad, am I?” Dirty Blonde replied, his tone suggested he was about to tell off a child, “and I didn’t steal your bike; I _ forcibly borrowed _it.”

This schoolmasterish stance only pissed Graham off more and he felt like screaming to the heavens, but instead he rubbed his eyes. 

“Blimey, would you look at the time.” Dirty Blonde said.

Graham checked his watch, it was really quite late, and couldn’t help but yawning.

Dirty Blonde smiled, “do you want a ride home?”

Graham woke the following morning with a searing headache. Out of habit he reached for his glasses which lay as they always did on the bedside table. _I need a shower, _he thought, because he reeked. His flat was a little messy, but in an inviting way. The art supplies and desk made the bedroom seem a lot smaller and the pile of dirty laundry became more daunting everyday. Graham proceeded to the kitchen to pour himself some coffee, and was met midway by somebody which caught him completely off guard.

“Tea?” Dirty Blonde inquired, offering him a mug of that life saving liquid.

Graham took it, mumbled a quick “thanks” and sat down on the sofa right next to a woman with strikingly ginger hair who he had never seen in his life before. He didn’t care, this was probably still a dream or something. If he were awake he was too tired to even think, only once he finished his tea and had a coffee he could start to freak out. The ginger lady cleared her throat rather gruffly and then said in a high pitched voice; “you must be Graham then.”

Graham nodded slowly and took a sip of his tea.

“Knock it off Alex, i'll admit your disguise isn’t shit.” Dirty Blonde called, he was leaning against the kitchen doorway watching.

“Shut up, there’s no need to say things like that, you’ll flatter me!” the so called Alex retaliated in lower, more natural, octaves. He turned back to Graham who had scooted over to the other end of the couch looking disgruntled. 

“My disguise is convincing isn’t it, darling?” Alex asked, reverting back to the high pitched voice. 

Graham shrugged, “sure.” 

Alex pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his handbag and Dirty Blonde sat down in the space between them.

“Those are bad for you y’know.” Blonde said quite seriously, and then added, “can I have one?”

Alex offered him one with the air of a winner and then offered another to Graham out of politeness. Graham politely refused. He did not know what he was supposed to do when a detective and an Alex were sitting on his couch smoking when he had never invited them into his flat in the first place, so he finished his tea. He watched as Alex removed his wig and shook out what looked like a black mop that covered his eyes. Graham half expected him to remove that too. Not eager to see where this was going, he stood up and started making his way out of the room. 

“Where are you going?” Dirty Blonde asked. 

“I’m going to have a shower.” Graham said irritably.

Dirty Blonde nodded, “course, sorry. I just didn’t want you to miss out on watching Alex remove his makeup.”

Alex looked up; he’d smoothed his hair out of the way and somehow managed to get hot pink lipstick on his forehead. 

“Excuse me?” He gasped, throwing his hands up to show clearly how offended he was.

Dirty Blonde concealed a laugh behind a coughing fit. Graham coughed also and left the room.

Showers are wonderful things; not only can you stand under water in your temperature of preference, but you can sing or think or relax or any combination of the three and much more. There are so many things that are great about showers and they should be compiled into a list. They probably have, actually. In the shower, Graham was finally able to process things from last night till now. He pinched himself first, to make sure that it was real life, and then slapped himself.

“Only a drunk idiot like you would tell a stranger in the middle of the night where he lives,” He scolded himself under his breath, “sure, you were tired, but now look who’s sitting in your living room!”

He then planned what he’d say to Dirty Blonde when he finished in the shower, something along the lines of “Could you please leave because I never invited you here and I’m tired and hungover and you took my motorcycle without permission which is theft.” It was a little rough around the edges but he had all the time in the world to polish it, that's what showers are for. When Graham finished he pulled on his clothes, a stripy t-shirt and baggy-but-not-too-baggy jeans, and made himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. As the water was boiling, he couldn’t help but overhear what Alex and Dirty Blonde were saying around the corner:

“If Jacks told you the exact time the car would drive past there and the car was early, then that means either he somehow told them that you were gonna be there or they knew he told us somehow.”

“Or he had it wrong.”

“Mmm”

“Or we had it wrong.”

“And how do we know if it was the actual car and not some other speeding car by coincidence.”

“We don’t but we have a witness.”

The jug chose this exact moment to beep and Alex called, “ah, Graham! Have a nice shower?”

Graham nodded and then internally berated himself for doing so out of view. He shuffled into the living room and prepared himself to say what he was planning in the shower. Before he could, Dirty Blonde dragged him onto a seat and said, “we would like to ask you some questions.”

Graham was sure he’d regret it but he was curious now. He imagined his willpower floating out the window. 

“I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine,” he said. 

Dirty Blonde nodded, “very sensible. You go first.”

“Are you really a detective?” Graham decided to ask first, he had to be sure.

Dirty Blonde pulled a wallet out of his pocket and showed Graham his identification or ‘detective card’ or whatever you call it. Alex did the same.

“So there are two detectives sitting on my couch,” He grinned ruefully. The grinning was questionable, but it's not everyday something like this happens.

“Right,” Alex said, “our turn.”

“Describe the car you saw speed past last night.” Dirty Blonde implored. 

Graham scratched his chin, “it was black I think.”

Alex couldn’t hide his disappointment, “anything else?”

“I dunno, do I?” Graham snapped, “It went past so fast!”

“Sorry,” Alex said, “I just want a lead.”

Graham nodded apologetically, “s’okay. I’ll try to remember more.”

He thought about what to ask next. It had to be clever but he couldn’t think of anything. Finally he settled with: “is my motorbike where you left it last night?”

“Inside the door.” Dirty Blonde confirmed. “How much did overhear before?”

“It didn’t really make sense, but I remember you saying something about a bloke named Jacks.”

Blonde and Alex shared a look which made Graham feel entirely out of the loop.

“Who is this ‘Jacks’ fellow anyway?” He asked.

The duo looked at him then at each other again.

Dirty Blonde glanced at the newspaper lying on the table. “His name is Tracy Jacks. Does that ring a bell?”

“That does ring a bell” Graham mused. He looked down at the newspaper as well. “Oh yeah! That bloke out in Holloway who bulldozed down his house, what a madman.”

“We believe there’s more to it than just ‘madman’,” Dirty Blonde said conspiratorially, “We discovered he had been taking pills, so we sent them to be tested only to find out they contained nothing, just empty capsules. Of course the label told us they had been purchased at a pharmacy and that they had to have been prescribed by a doctor, but the name of the doctor had been scratched off. We visited the pharmacy but it had closed days ago and was up for rent. Jacks is being held at the police station in Holloway before being moved to either prison or a madhouse, they never told me but it's easy to figure...”

“Basically we have no answers whatsoever.” Alex finished. 

“I’m your only lead.” Graham said, looking up from studying his nails.

They both nodded.

He frowned, “sorry I couldn’t tell you anything useful. Why did you tell me all that anyway? It’s not like-”

Dirty Blonde stood up suddenly and smiled at Graham, “want to have lunch?”

Graham was startled to say the least, so Alex helped him by winking and whispering: “This is his way of saying sorry for kidnapping you and your motorbike.”

“It’s called _ forcibly borrowing _,” Blonde insisted.

From the backseat of a foreign car, Graham found himself watching a detective with a mop for hair in the process of applying his lipstick. The mop was no longer visible however, as he had donned his wig.

“Could you please go a bit smoother darling?” Alex requested in his high pitched lady voice.

Dirty Blonde scoffed, “if your having trouble with your lipstick then why did you take it off in the first place?”

Alex squinted at himself in the mirror, “I didn’t know we were going to have lunch.”

“Look, if you want me to pull over you just have to ask.” Blonde offered.

Graham tried not to laugh as Alex sat in silent and extreme focus for a while before finally giving in.

“You want me to pull over?” Blonde asked after Alex had sighed in frustration for the fifth time in a row. 

Alex nodded and they parked. Once the lipstick was resolved they only had to drive for a short time before they arrived at their destination: an IT shop. 

“This isn’t-” Graham started.

Alex put a finger up dramatically, “hush, you’re about to meet Dave.”

Graham shrugged, “as long as you’re still shouting me lunch.”

“Of course we are darling.” Alex assured him.

“Eating out mustn’t come cheap for a university student,” Dirty Blonde said, as if Graham had told him he went to university.

“How did you know that?” Demanded Graham.

“Hush: Dave.” Was Blondes response.

They walked through the front door of Lonesome Street IT and went straight through to another door with a sign that read _ staff only _. Graham was a little unsure about the staff only sign but the detectives seemed to know what they were doing. Besides, none of the staff seemed at all interested. Behind the door was another room with a small desk, an armchair and a shitload of boxes. Sitting in the armchair was a ginger who Graham could see as both mildly attractive and sharing likeness with an albino rat. He eyed them and sipped his coffee.

“Hello Dave!” Said Dirty Blonde cheerfully, “how’s work?”

“S’alright. Today I had a customer ask me what IT stands for and then leave.” Dave said.

Alex giggled, “fascinating.”

Dirty Blonde cleared his throat and gestured to Graham, “this is Graham.”

Dave stood up and shook Grahams hand, “nice to meet you.”

Graham just nodded. He liked Dave, Dave was normal.

Dirty Blonde embraced Dave and said, “ditch your coffee, have lunch with us.”

Dave laughed, “I’m not ditching my coffee but lunch doesn’t sound bad.”

Alex was approached by Dave next, who took his hand and kissed it. 

“Monsieur,” Alex crooned.

“Cindy,” smirked Dave.

Graham couldn’t quite figure out what was going on and was saved the trouble of asking by Blonde who told him not to bother.

The cafe turned out to be just down the road and was named, very fashionably, Lonesome Street Cafe. Graham thought it wasn’t the pleasantest place but he had been to much worse. Alex, or rather Cindy, told him not to be fooled by the cafes looks and that it had some of the best toasted cheese sandwiches in all of London. There was a small menu and you had to order at the counter. They all ordered the exact same thing: the cheese toastie. Graham was very glad that when they sat down he was next to Dave, whose hair now looked more blonde. Graham wanted desperately to ask why Daves hair changed colour but thought it might offend him, so he didn’t.

“How’s uni?” Dirty Blonde asked.

Graham purposefully took a while to realise the question was directed at him before replying, “I never told you I went to university.”

“You left an essay on your coffee table. I read it, it was very well done.” 

Graham was taken aback, “first of all; you snoop! Second; your wrong, it’s not a well done essay.”

Cindy piped in, “I thought it was very interesting. Salvador Dali is pretty cool.”

Dirty Blonde hummed in agreement.

“Well, you two should probably discuss what you’re going to do about your case,” Dave advised.

Cindy and Blonde nodded and got stuck into it. 

Dave grinned at Graham, “are you evidence? A witness?”

“Witness,” Graham confirmed.

“Ah,” Dave nodded, “I was too. I watched as someone robbed the shop, they took ages to get what they needed. I just stood behind the counter.”

“Were they armed?” Graham asked, intrigued. “You can’t have been able to stand there, they would have seen you.”

“They were armed and they saw me but they didn’t use their weapon. They just let me stand there.”

Graham laughed, “Wow. They mustn’t have been professionals then.”

“Neither was I,” Dave imparted, “to this day I wonder why I didn’t hide when I saw them come in and call the police.”

“How did you meet those two?” Graham asked. 

“They visited me right after it happened and asked how the robbery went,” reminisced Dave, “I thought they must have been psychic or something but it turned out they had been tipped by the robber. Anyway, they liked me so they asked if I wanted to be their tech guy and I said sure it can't be half as bad as the shop and we’ve been friends ever since. Much to my annoyance I have to keep working because they don’t need me full time.”

“Huh.” Graham shrugged.

Dave chuckled, “they must really like you if they brought you to meet me, not to mention shouting you grilled fucking cheese on toast.”

Graham half nodded half shrugged. He didn’t like what Dave was talking about because he didn’t want to be friends with someone who had forcibly borrowed his motorbike. Dave was to be respected but Graham just wanted to have a toasted sandwich and leave. 

“They really do like you, I can tell, and that's rare,” Dave assured, “give them a chance.”

Again Graham found himself conflicted: a newly discovered part of him wanted to drift after these people like Dave did while his sensible side was trying to pull him back on the ground. Indeed, the new fraction of Graham left him with a strange feeling in his gut that wasn’t painful but very powerful. Dave winked at him and he wondered if he should drink a shitload of alcohol, _because_ _that ought to put him right. _Then the sandwiches arrived and confusion gave way to hunger.

“Tuck in!” trilled Cindy, so they did.

It was, truly, one of the greatest sandwiches Graham had ever tasted. It was otherworldly. Cindy nodded smugly at Grahams expression.

“I reckon the chef here is an alien.” Dirty Blonde said, reading Grahams mind.

“Why is that?” Dave questioned. He and Cindy suddenly looked dead serious.

Graham surprised himself by answering, “I never saw the chef through the window in the kitchens when I looked. It’s as if they’re trying to avoid being seen.”

Saying that had planted a seed of worry which grew until they saw the chef sit down and eat her lunch.

“I must say that was disappointing,” Dave said.

Cindy looked at him, eyes wide in horror.

“Not the sandwiches,” Dave assured, “the alien.”

Dirty Blonde nodded, “on the note of sandwiches, Dave I believe it's your turn to pay.”

Leaning over, Dave whispered to Graham, “watch this, i’m gonna use my get out of jail free card.”

“What’s that?” Asked Cindy.

Dave was armed and ready, “remember when you left me in that hole?”

The detectives smiled guiltily, “we’ll pay.”

Graham would have found this conversation entertaining had he not been distracted by the smell of smoke, which was getting stronger by the second. He stood up suddenly, speed walked towards the kitchen and placed the back of his hand carefully on the door. To the touch it was hot enough to make him yelp.

“Everyone get out!” He yelled.

By now it was obvious what was going on and there was a rush to the door. Outside, the chef, embarrassed by her blunder, phoned the fire department. Dirty Blonde ran back inside to evacuate the building, and as people started emerging Dave, Graham and Cindy made sure they were alright. Thankfully the firefighters arrived before the fire got out of control and after Dirty Blonde made it out. Their work done, the four made their way back to the car.

“Cindy and I have decided,” Blonde announced as they reached the vehicle, “that we should talk to Jacks again.”

Dave looked back at Lonesome Street IT, grinned and jumped into the car. Cindy followed suite. 

Dirty Blonde turned to Graham, “that was some quick wit.”

Graham became very interested in his fingernails.

“Honestly, you pick up on things very fast. That was very good of you back there.” Blonde assured. “You should come with us to the station.”

That was the request Graham had been waiting for, the reason why his fingers were so important. Graham did feel a pull towards the vehicle, but there was something stopping him. It was better to just remain silent.

Dirty Blonde sounded a little crestfallen, “or we could drop you back to your place if you like.”

“It’s always gonna be the same, isn’t it?” Graham asked suddenly.

Blonde looked confused.

“My life.” Graham tried to explain, “It's the same thing over and over again, except for today of course because of the fire and you just showing up out of nowhere...”

A knowing smile appeared on Dirty Blondes face, “We all have similar lives but everyone has little dramas and excitements, it looks to me like your having one of your own right now.”

Graham laughed, “I s’pose. I’m also stalling, I think.”

“What for?” asked Blonde.

“You probably know already, it's your job,” Graham pointed out.

“I do,” Blonde admitted, “have you made a decision?”

“I had a rubbish day yesterday,” sighed Graham, “maybe that's why I’m so tense.”

Dirty Blonde nodded politely, “are you coming?”

Graham shook his head, then threw his hands in the air, “I dunno! Er…” he scratched his chin and thought about doing something not so boring for once, then about how he’d probably regret it and then again about how he’d probably regret not going anyway.

“Take me with you,” he said, “before I change my mind.”


	2. Tracy Jacks

The police station turned out to be in Holloway, which was luckily not a far drive. Alex was hammering on about the epicness of space thanks to Graham showing a mild interest in the topic after Alex brought it up. The conversation, or rather Alex talking and the inhabitants of the car having to listen, did have some interesting points. Presently Graham was learning the names of some moons.

“You can remember them through a song I wrote,” said Alex, who still looked like Cindy, but was definitely Alex. 

He sang: 

_ I spy in the night sky, don't I? _

_ Phoebe Io Elara _

_ Leda Callisto Sinope _

_ Janus Dione Portia, so many moons _

_ Quiet in the sky at night _

_ Hot in the Milky Way _

_ Outside in _

_ Vega Capella, Hadar _

_ Rigel Barnard's Star _

_ Antares, Aldebaran, Altair _

_ Wolf 359 Betelgeuse _

_ Sun _ , _ sun, sun, sun _

For the last bit Alex feigned an echo. Graham smiled politely as if he hadn’t just witnessed something on the wrong side of extraordinary. 

“Thank you for sharing that with us Alex,” Dirty Blonde said from the front.

“Thank you Alex,” Dave echoed, as if they were back at school.

At last they pulled into a parking space and Graham marveled at how unimpressive the Holloway Police Station was. It wasn’t big but also not tiny, and was one of the dingiest places Graham had ever come across. It did not oppose expectations when inside either, as paint was peeling off the walls in places and it smelled faintly of piss.

“Pleasant,” Graham murmured.

“Don't worry, it gets worse,” Dirty Blonde said, appearing at Grahams side and eyeing a person on the other side of the room.

The aforementioned person wore a bucket hat, a parka, and appeared at first glance to have a singular eyebrow.

Dave arrived at Grahams other side as Dirty Blonde strode over to Buckethead, “they’re workplace rivals,” he explained, “that's Liam Gallagher, he’s a detective too. Normally he’s with his brother Noel cause they’re partners. They think they hate each other more than they actually do.”

“Who do, the brothers or the rivals?”

“Good question. I’d say both.”

Graham scoffed.

Alex also scoffed, but his scoff was serious, then he squared his shoulders and walked over to join the two rivals.

Graham and Dave followed behind.

“So, _ Laim _, where’s Noel?” Alex asked.

Liam sighed, “I was just telling your partner here that Noel is sick, yeah? Nasty cold. What makes it your business?” 

His accent was thick, he was definitely a northerner. 

“Just curious,” Dirty Blonde said loftily.

“Could you get out of my way then?” Liam asked, “I’m trying to move a prisoner.”

Panic sprung upon Blonde and Alex’s faces.

“What? We need to talk to him!” Blonde shouted in desperation, some people turned around to glare at him, “he wasn’t even supposed to be moved until-”

Liam interrupted, “I have orders to move him early. You can read the paperwork if you don't believe me.”

Dirty Blonde groaned, “I believe you.”

“Good,” Liam said, and walked off.

“Shit.” Alex whispered.

“Don’t worry,” Dirty Blonde assured worriedly, setting off down the corridor, “we’re going to try to talk to him anyway.”

Graham had to speed to keep up, “but how do you know the prisoner is Jacks?”

Blonde grimaced, “there’s only one prisoner here.”

A loud banging issued from inside a broom cupboard.

He raised his eyebrows and stopped walking, “I am mistaken.”

They opened the door to reveal another person with seemingly one eyebrow, who was bound and had tape over his mouth. Alex ripped the tape off, the sound made Graham flinch.

“Fancy meeting you here Noel,” he smiled.

Noel frowned, “no, not really.”

Graham could see this conversation going nowhere, so he took the liberty of asking the important question: “who… y’know, locked you in here?”

Noel suddenly looked very worried, “Liam. You need to stop Liam from taking Tracy Jacks, he's not himself! I don't know where he got those papers but they aren’t proper.”

The foursome cocked their heads.

Noel was frustrated, “there isn’t time to explain! You need to go now before they leave!”

Dirty Blonde nodded and they ran back the way they had come. When they arrived in the car park huffing, the police van was already leaving. The only reasonable course of action was to jump into the nearest car and pursue. 

The van lead them along the M1 for quite some time before turning off to travel along a seemingly endless country road. Graham wished he had never thought the words country road because the stupid song started playing in his head. The whole car filled with an air of restraint as Graham shared a look with Dave who was obviously also trying not to impulsively _ sing it _. Alex felt the restraint from the passenger seat and turned around.

“Why is everyone holding their breath?” He asked, oh so innocent.

Graham made a dying noise. 

Dirty Blonde was was holding his breath for a different reason. He was thinking of all the ways this situation could go horribly wrong, especially for Graham. Guilt started to creep up on him for dragging the poor student along with him and he periodically glanced in the mirror to see how he was holding up. The glances were always quick because the police van ahead of them was the most important thing at the moment, and Dirty Blonde felt that if he stopped watching it for too long it would disappear.

“This is a long road, hey,” Alex said.

“Good observation,” Dirty Blonde said dryly, the response almost automatic.

Graham and Dave visibly tensed, so it was lucky Alex was blinking at the horizon.

He sang to himself in a small voice, “_ we’re on the road to nowhere _.”

The tension in the car relaxed a little, Dave even breathed a sigh of relief.

“Seriously though,” said Alex, “every time I travel along one of these country roads, the straight flat ones, they seem to go on forever.”

There it was. The tension rose to a high as Alex started to sing again.

“_ Country roads, take me home _.”

Dave snapped.

“_ Too the place _.”

Graham followed.

“_ I belong. West Virginia, mountain mama _.”

It was like a spectacular group therapy session, except Alex was there on accident.

“_ Take me home, country roads _.”

They sang for the next part of the journey, and Christ what a dull journey. By the time they had sung their third round they were on the same road. Taking the silence as a cue, Dirty Blonde turned on the radio as he would rather follow a police van to the end of the earth with anything but out-of-tune Country Roads as background noise. They were a little out of range but Country Roads crackled through the stereo. Cringing, Blonde was quick to change the station. Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture was playing. The piece was at its beginning and the entire overture saw them past a town and a lake, and back into barren farmland. There a posh woman’s voice, difficult to interpret between the static noises, droned until it got so bad Dirty Blonde had to turn off the radio. In the silence Graham started to think about how far they were from his flat and he began to feel regret like he had predicted back at the cafe. _ Flipping hell _that seemed like ages ago. Subsequently he thought of how the cons often outweigh the pros in life; and no matter how great a time you have, the rubbish experiences always stand out. With this new philosophy Graham decided he would stop brooding and maybe live in the now or something deep like that. As if to welcome him back from his thinking the doors of the van opened.

“Surprise!” Dirty Blonde murmured.

Two policemen on either side of the vans interior were pointing their guns in the direction of the car and its inhabitants.

“That’s mutinous,” Alex said crossly, “but at least we know we know they aren’t with us.”

There was someone else in the back of the van who was sitting. Graham could just make him out and it looked as though he was in a fit of laughter. 

“Is that Tracy Jacks?” Graham asked, an edge of fear in his voice.

Dirty Blonde nodded, “yes, I see him.”

Without warning the policemen opened fire, and a scatter of bullets shattered the windscreen. Thankfully Graham had thought to duck behind the passenger seat, so he was unscathed. An image however was imprinted on his brain, of Tracy Jacks staring him right in the eye, grinning like a madman. What happened next was no mystery: the gunmen had shot at them first to throw them off guard and then expertly popped their tires all in a matter of seconds. The car swerved and screeched to a halt. Alex stared as the van grew further away, until it was a mere speck on the horizon of the country road. Hopeless, he turned to ask his partner what their next move should be, only to find him gritting his teeth as dark stain grew on his shoulder


	3. Bang!

“An ambulance will come, but not for a while,” said Dave, clearly frustrated. 

Lucky for them Dave had a brain and a Nokia in his pocket, although he had to walk for a long time to get any coverage. 

“Shit!” Alex hissed, gesturing to Dirty Blonde “look at him! For all we know he could be getting an infection from that bullet, a life threatening one!”

Dave sighed and leaned against the busted car, “I know, but we’re so far out from the nearest hospital. They’re coming as fast as they can.”

Dirty Blonde chuckled weakly, “I'll be fine, don't worry. I’m okay. Right, Graham?”

Graham didn’t respond, he was busy staring at the red that slowly stained Blonde’s white t-shirt and the hole in his shoulder from which it came.

“Good help you are.”

Alex frowned, walked up the road a smidge, and had a smoke. Graham felt someone pat his shoulder.

“Don't worry,” reassured Dave, “happens all the time.”

The reassurance did not work very well, because when Dave went to join Alex Graham was still in frozen panic mode.

“Shouldn’t we try to stop the bleeding or something?” Graham yelled a little hoarsely.

Dave walked back over, “good point, how about you put some pressure on the wound.” 

Graham nodded and mustered up the courage to put pressure on the overly red and sticky wound while Dave got busy taking his shirt off to use as a cloth.

He grimaced, “Fuck its cold.”

The ambulance finally arrived just after the sun disappeared below the horizon. By then Dirty Blonde had turned a sickening pale from loss of blood and had to be wheeled aboard the vehicle on a stretcher, which is when they discovered he couldn’t move his arm without experiencing extreme pain.

Aboard the vehicle, whilst speed limits were legally broken, they also discovered he had been shot more than once in that shoulder. Graham had failed to notice the hole in Blonde's jacket. Luckily none of the bullets had burst any main arteries or he would have bled to death within minutes, but the paramedic said because he had difficulty moving his arm he will have to have an x-ray and possibly an operation, not to mention checking for infection. Blonde laughed weakly a few times and refused to be put unconscious in case he missed something, which Graham thought was a little weird.

Faster it seemed than the amount of time the ambulance took to get to them, they were in the Luton and Dunstable hospital racing through the carefully controlled chaos up an elevator, through god knows however many hallways and doors so they could wait hours to get an X-ray, then results, then an operation, for Blonde to recover, then an operation with a different surgeon, it went on and on until they were absolutely zonked but still strangely wide awake.

Dirty Blonde was under when they finally finished, it was way past reasonable hours and the coffee they downed during the first surgery was wearing off. The doctors said they’d have to make sure he wakes up before they can properly wrap up.

It was nerve wracking, when they first shook him and he didn’t show signs of consciousness. When they shook him again and he groaned Graham felt so relieved he couldn’t stop smiling, and almost cried (how embarrassing) when Dirty Blonde sat up and asked how the operation went. 

Dave answered, “pretty well I think.”

“How long do I have to stay here?” Blonde asked next, looking hopeful, “because I really can't take much time off.”

The doctor replied haltingly, “we know of your occupation and your situation, but we’d like to keep you in for at least-”

“No, sorry, can't do it, we’ll have to cut that to at the utter-most two nights.”

They were told to keep volume to a minimum when they reached the hospital ward. The curtains of the other patients were drawn, most of them were probably fast asleep. The group was directed to their own space, with a few chairs that were quickly taken. 

“I’m sorry,” the doctor apologised, “but I’m afraid you three will have to find a place to stay for the night.”

On that note Graham made to get off his chair, but Dirty Blonde was insistent they stay.

“I won't be able to sleep, isn’t there a visiting policy for after hours?”

“We could put you under.”

“No, no more drugs for me. _ Is there a visiting policy? _”

“Erm, yes. Just one person allowed, with minimal noise, but-“

“Aha!”

The Doctor's patience was running thin, and he was tired, weren’t they all?

“Alright, fine. I advise you to follow the policies, however. One person, no waking the other patients.”

Dirty Blonde nodded, “okay, bye! Thank you!”

Dave took this as a cue to follow the doctor out of the ward. Graham wished he had done the same, because Dave was probably on his way to sleep somewhere nice that didn’t smell like hospital.

“Well, there’s only one person allowed at a time,” Graham said, standing up.

Alex nodded, brow furrowed, “we could take shifts.”

Graham sat back down again, feeling awkward.

“Good idea, Alex,” Blonde said, “1 hour?”

“Yeah. I’ll take the first shift for you Graham, you look dead inside,” Alex kindly offered.

“Thanks,” Graham croaked.

“You could probably sleep on the chairs outside,” Dirty Blonde suggested, “if they’re not occupied.”

Graham mumbled, “sure,” and was out in the corridor. 

No dreams occurred within that hour, nor did Graham sleep. Chairs are meant for sitting, and you’d know if you ever tried lying over a number of them it's bumpy and uncomfortable. Unless you are a cat, because cats seem to like sleeping in uncomfortable positions. Graham felt horrible, or should have felt horrible, because hadn’t he been shot at during a car chase just that afternoon? But he couldn't feel much other than tiredness and immediate discomfort. Surprisingly nobody made him move, despite the occasional shuffle of staff. When Alex came to get him he was almost thankful. 

“Hullo,” Dirty Blonde whispered, “sorry if you were sleeping.”

Graham whispered back, “I wasn’t. Why’d you ask if we could stay?”

“Mostly because I wanted to talk to Alex about the case.”

Graham noted the word _ mostly _, “okay.”

“I’m glad you stayed though, you make good company,” Blonde said.

“No I don’t,” Graham scoffed.

“Okay, maybe you don’t.”

“Christ, _ thanks _.”

The two were silent for a while. Graham was thinking really hard, because something in the back of his mind was bugging him. 

“Hey.”

“Mmm?”

Graham felt a bit foolish, but he had the right to put it forward, “I never caught your name.”

Dirty Blondes eyes widened, “blimey!” He whisper-shouted, and after a moment's thought added, “what have you been calling me then? In your head?”

“I’m not telling you,” Graham said, trying to hide his embarrassment, “what's your name?”

Dirty Blonde would have crossed his arms if he could, “I won’t say it if you don’t say it first.”

Graham contemplated saying something along the lines of, _ why on earth would you think I have a name for you in my head, _but it was too late for that as he’d given himself away. He huffed, “fine. Dirty Blonde, that's what I’ve been calling you. Because, you know, your hair…”

“That’s actually pretty cool,” Blonde said.

“Okay?”

Dirty Blonde’s face was lit up, “I should use that as a code name!”

“Blonde-” Graham started, but quickly realised his mistake.

“Blonde!”

“_ What is your name _?” Hissed Graham.

“You should just call me Dirty Blonde,” said the detective.

Graham felt cheated, “wanker.”

Dirty Blonde only chuckled.

“I could strangle you.”

One of the other patients whispered loudly at them to “shut up, or I’ll strangle you both”. Dirty Blonde closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

Graham shrugged, “s’okay. Not really that big a deal. Although I would prefer if I knew…”

Dirty Blonde interrupted him, “about dragging you into this, I mean, and putting you in danger.”

“Yeah,” said Graham, kind of at a loss of what to say, “I’m here now though.’

Dirty Blonde shook his head, “you can leave tomorrow if you want, go back to university or whatever, but I have a gut feeling about you. When I have a gut feeling, it's usually something important.”

Graham wasn’t quite following.

“My gut is telling me that you’re supposed to be here, no clue why.”

“But you’re a detective,” Graham said, still processing, “aren't you supposed to… figure things out?”

Dirty Blonde smiled, “yeah.”

A realisation struck Graham, “I had a gut feeling, back at the cafe.”

“Jesus that feels like ages ago, carry on.” Blonde said, yawning.

“I think it was telling me to join you,” Graham carried on, “and screw being mundane.”

“Huh.”

“Thought that might help you figure it out.”

Dirty Blonde yawned again, so Graham yawned as well. 

The light was harsh against Graham’s eyes, forcing them open, forcing him out of slumber. It was light from the sun piercing through the only gap in the blinds right onto his line of vision. He moved, tenderly, because every joint and every muscle ached from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position; his head rested on the wall and arm squished against the chair.

Dirty Blonde was still asleep, bless him, and snoring very softly. Graham watched the detective, he looked quite peaceful in this state and the soft light complemented his already pretty face. All the complexity of his waking hours was not present and he looked younger, innocent, simple. Right now, Graham thought, he was a little more likeable. Still looked like an asshole, and an idiot with his mouth hanging open a little, but a nice one.

His eyes wandered to the bandage around his shoulder, underneath which he knew there were two scars. The doctor had told them all how to dress and care for the wounds if Blonde was going to leave so soon. Graham occasionally wondered how to dress shoulder wounds, because people get shot in the shoulder all the time in movies and never dress it because they are action heroes, don't have time for it and can't die. Turns out in order to get the bandage around the shoulder you have to wrap it around the chest and then the first bit of the arm and have that arm in a sort of sling. Common sense really. Dirty Blonde was kind of like the action heroes because he refused to wear a proper sling even though he couldn’t move his arm very well.

He also got told he has to go to physio which didn’t go down well. In his own words, “there are better things I could be doing with my time!”

It dawned on Graham, like the sun dawned on the town of Dunstable, that Alex had not woken him up. _ That bastard, _ Graham thought, _ probably left to sleep somewhere nice, like Dave. _

As if on cue Alex joined them, “how was your sleep?”

“Painful,” Graham said.

Alex grinned, which was scary considering his lipstick was badly smudged.

A groan issued from the bed in front of them, followed by a sleepy “good morning”.

“Morning,” Alex said cheerily, “should I fetch you a cuppa?”

Dirty Blonde yawned, “yes, that would be lovely thank you. Oh, Alex, you’ve got…”

Graham looked at Blonde pointedly.

“Nothing, it's nothing.”

After Alex had left Dirty Blonde looked at Graham quizzically.

“I dunno why I stopped you there, he just… seemed so happy, y’know? I didn’t want you to break his stride,” Graham said in defence.

“Fair enough,” Dirty Blonde said, “but I wonder how _ that _happened.”

Graham shrugged, “maybe he smudged it in his sleep? Which would mean he slept in his disguise, that would’ve been uncomfortable with the wig and the skirt and the leggings and the fake breasts.”

Dirty Blonde nodded slowly, “Alex can sleep through anything. I should know, we’ve been flatting together for a year.”

There was a pause while Graham moved to look out of the window. He had a clear view of the ominous purple clouds that were edging closer and closer. It was definitely going to rain. 

“Are you feeling any better?” Graham asked, still gazing at the oncoming downpour.

“Never felt better,” Dirty Blonde answered, “hopefully they’ll let us go today, then we can go to the flat and debrief.”

“Sounds great,” Graham said.

A scuffling sound told them the curtains to their sector of the wing had been opened with a flourish. Graham turned, it was Alex.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Alex fumed, gesturing towards his mouth.

Graham shrugged.

Dirty Blonde nodded in agreement.

Alex handed Blonde his tea and crossed his arms, he was definitely upset, “do you know how embarrassing that was? Everyone was staring at me funny!”

“Sorry,” Blonde said, “we should have told you.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t want to break your stride,” Graham added helpfully.

A nurse walked in on them, “er, sorry, I need to do a few tests. On the patient.”

“Can I leave afterwards?” Dirty Blonde asked, hopeful.

The nurse made a nasally sounding _ hrm _ noise.

To Graham's great surprise the uptight staff let them go.

It did take a lot of convincing on Dirty Blondes part, with Alex to back him up. Dave arrived halfway through the tests looking well rested, and Graham couldn’t help feeling a little jealous.

Blonde could walk fine and function well enough without an arm to finally convince the doctors into letting him go, but they made him promise to take it easy for the next three days at least and they’d get someone to check up on him every day of that time.

He had to be ushered to Dave's rental car of course, but as soon as they pulled away from the hospital he broke into a cheerful smile and hummed absentmindedly. Graham was also very thankful they were out of the hospital, partly because of the hospital smell but also because he just didn’t like hospitals or doctors or anything medical, and never had. 

“We’re getting close,” informed Alex after a very long drive, “this is our neighbourhood.”

_ Soho_. Graham visited there from time to time, but he wouldn’t have chosen it as a place to live. 

Dave turned a corner.

Alex did a double take, “Dave what are you doing?”

“Yeah, Dave, you should know by now where we live.” Dirty Blonde said.

Dave sighed, “rental car, remember? We’ll have to walk to you’re place, sorry D-”

Dirty Blonde cut him off, “that's fine! I can walk very well thank you, my legs weren’t shot.”

Graham grinned smugly to himself, _ so your name starts with a D _.

Dirty Blonde saw Graham's expression, and said, “you should all call me Dirty Blonde from now on, as a sort of code name. Graham came up with it.”

Graham hid his face, he could feel his cheeks starting to burn.

“Bastard,” he said, his voice muffled.

He felt the detective move closer and heard him whisper, “your ears.”

“My…” Graham trailed off, and then realised his ears were burning too. He pulled his shirt up over his face.

“_ Bastard _,” Graham repeated.

Dirty Blonde chuckled.

The flat certainly had character. Right upon entrance a rack of clothes and drawers filled with what Graham could only imagine to be accessories greeted him. He wondered why they would be in the hallway, but decided not to question it. In the lounge two big boards made a centerpiece, the whiteboard had writing scrawled over it in what looked like a hurry, the cork board had two photos and a newspaper article tacked to it.

“A detective board!” Graham exclaimed, and then immediately felt like an idiot.

“Yes,” said Alex sarcastically, “a _ detective board. _”

Dirty Blonde grinned and weaved past the couch and coffee table to the boards.

He pointed at the one with the papers, saying very helpfully, “this one’s where we stick our evidence.”

Graham nodded, although his interest was piqued with something else.

“You like music?” The detective asked, “I saw you had a guitar back at your place.”

“Of course you did,” sighed Graham, eyes glued to the record collection.

“You can have a look if you want, some of them are Alex’s, some of them are mine.”

“S’okay,” Graham said, settling himself on the couch, “maybe another time.”

A soft _ fwump _indicated Dave joining him.

“Right, well I’m getting changed,” Alex announced, glaring at Dirty Blonde, “unless we’re going out for lunch again.”

Dirty Blonde shook his head.

“Good,” said Alex, then disappeared into another room.

Dirty Blonde scribbled a few things on the whiteboard, the marker fumes reaching Graham and almost hitting him over the head with nostalgia for, what, two days ago? When he was at Uni. Blonde then sat down on a wooden stool nearby (or was it a footrest?), stood up again, read the writing on the board, crossed some stuff out and sat back down. He looked as if he was about to start talking when someone hammered the door.

“_ Sacre bleu! _” Alex yelled, practically sprinting back into the living room in nothing but his pants.

Dirty Blonde was already looking through the peephole.

“It’s Noel,” he whispered.

Noel frowned, “yes it is, glad you remember who I am. Let me in? I have some information that might help with the case.”

“Wait,” Blonde said.

“I haven’t got all fucking day mate!” 

“We don’t know who to trust after your brother pulled that stunt, tell us something only you would know about yourself.”

Noel cursed under his breath, “thanks Liam. Uh, Liam urinated all over my stereo system.”

“We know that,” Dirty Blonde said, “everyone knows that.”

Noel cursed again, “I hit Liam over the head with a cricket bat when he bought some mates over from the pub.”

“We know that one too.”

“Fuck off! I came here to give you information about Liam being off his trolley, do you want it or not?”

By now Alex was at Dirty Blonde's side, shaking his head and mouthing _ ‘don’t let him in’ _.

“I also want to know what happened,” Noel said, “after you left.”

Blonde sighed, “okay, but you better not try anything.”

He opened the door with his good hand, wincing when he saw Noel's surprised expression.

“How’d that happen?”

“Got shot.” 

It was Noel's turn to wince, “sorry mate.” 

Alex stood at his full height in order to seem intimidating, probably to make up for his nakedness. Noel just smirked and placed his umbrella against the wall. 

“I'll make us some tea,” Dave offered.

In embarrassment, although he did not show it, Alex took this opportunity to escape and put some clothes on.

The visitor came into the living room and sat down with a sigh, Dirty Blonde following behind looking mildly peeved.

_ Workplace rivals, _ Graham thought, understanding but not being able to relate. He could only fight or argue and that if he was pissed. Time and time again it did happen: once this big bloke came from behind, snatched his pint and drank it in one massive gulp. Furious, Graham turned around and punched him, not really aiming anywhere because he was drunk but hitting bang smack in the nose. Graham grinned to himself, _ that felt good. _ What didn’t feel good was afterwards when the bloke gave him a dozen bruises and a bleeding lip. 

“Nice top,” said Noel, pulling Graham out of his reverie.

“Thanks mate.”

“You’re new, I’m guessing. Are you training?”

“Training?” Graham asked, confused.

Dirty Blonde saved him, “nah, just here.”

Noel squinted, “just here.”

“Yeah,” Blonde said, “kinda like Dave.”

Noel nodded slowly, “okay. What do you do for a living then, Just Here?’

“Art major,” said Graham, who felt a little like he was being interrogated.

“Fab,” Noel said, sticking out his hand, “nice to meet you…”

Graham shook it, “Graham. Pleasure.”

In almost perfect timing Dave emerged with the tea as Alex emerged with his clothes on, black turtleneck and black jeans.

Dirty Blonde clasped his hands, “right, now that we’re all here…”


End file.
